


Paint It Red and Set It On Fire

by shiniestqueen (sparrowinsky)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6594661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowinsky/pseuds/shiniestqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fahrenheit makes it to Goodneighbor three times before it sticks.</p><p>Ask her about it, she'll tell you she doesn't know what made her stay. Maybe it was the job offer. Maybe it was the beer. Definitely wasn't the lounge singer. </p><p>(Ask again, she'll probably hit you. Better not.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChocoChipBiscuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/gifts).



> For chocochipbiscuit, who asked for _"Fahrenheit/Magnolia, two of the leading ladies of Goodneighbor ripping up the town together?"_
> 
> The thing is, I apparently have this compulsion. When I write a lady for whom there is little-to-no-backstory, everything in my brain goes BACKSTORY BACKSTORY BACKSTORY. HOW DID SHE HAPPEN.
> 
> So like half of this is going to be Fahrenheit backstory. #sorrynotsorry.

Fahrenheit makes it to Goodneighbor three times before it sticks.

The first she doesn’t remember, barely walking on fat little legs as she trotted after the caravan. Her brother tells her about it, later, before her world falls to pieces. When he still has a tongue to tell it with. How there was a hotel with beds, and a ghoul bought half their stock. That’s where he got the book, he tells her, and even lets her take it to bed that night. Words are still hard, but she likes the way the pages are faintly slick beneath her fingers and the colors shine bright in the firelight.

Doesn’t remember much of the second time, either. Fifteen and whip-thin, armor hanging on her body like it’ll slip off any second. She’s all bone and skin and big eyes. No more caravan, not for a long time, but she found a place. Oh, did she find a place. Full of harsh words and guns and fear, but she’d rather cause it than feel it, and if she bolts to the nearest bar the night after her first raid, well. 

Well. The ‘bot hands her drinks and doesn’t ask about the slice on her arm, the shake in her fingers. She only throws up twice.

It’s the third that takes, when she’s twenty-six and goddamn tired. Burned through three crews in ten years and then found herself a leader, and all right, she can shoot a gun and strip a body if you point her in the right direction but hell no, no, no. Fahrenheit is not the one to do the pointing.

_ Tell us what to do, boss _ , they said, like children, hungry for whatever they can lay their hands on. She doesn’t blame them and never will. She knows. There’s not many ways to keep alive. You do what you can. 

Doesn’t mean she’s going to tell them how.

So she runs, dumps her armor and her name like an old skin, clips her hair close and scrubs the blood from her nails. Slithers into a sad little farm and says  _ feed me _ .

She has to work for it, of course. Plant and shoot and cook and clean. She hates it. Does it anyway, does it for a year, burns away the past and digs into the ground like a penance and a prayer. For what, she doesn’t know. For something new. For a reason, a point, a purpose.

At the end of the year a caravan swing by, and the farm is just a little less pitiful than before, and she’s tired of dirt under her nails. Signs on as a guard, doesn’t say goodbye.

Caravan work. Boring, easy. Trudging along and staring at a brahmin’s ass, familiar in an aching way she ignores. The same way she ignores the merchant, the other guard, everything but the horizon and the job. Boring. Boring and gray. She hates it.

She lasts until Bunker Hill, all of three months in. Takes the caps she’s owed and ducks out into the world, shivering as she sheds  _ guard _ like she shed  _ farmer _ . 

It’s familiar territory. Her first crew had been near here, along the water.

Fahrenheit goes the other way. Deeper into the ruins, a shadow among shadows. Doesn’t bother taking out her gun, not for this; she knows where the muties are, where the ferals nest. The worst she encounters is a dog, scrawny and snarling, and it goes down with one quick blow. Butchers the meat and moves on to Goodneighbor.

It’s different than she remembers, a little cleaner, feels a little less like she’s going to get a knife to the kidneys any second. She spots two merchants the moment she steps through the gate. An Assaultron that has her fingers twitching toward her gun, and a ghoul that--

That--

The last time Fahrenheit came to Goodneighbor, fifteen and sick with sorrow, she’d stumbled blindly through, straight to the bar. Now she finds herself staring at a little well-lit store, remembering a boy’s soft voice and the pages of a comic book slick beneath her fingertips.

She shakes herself, a full-body shudder that has a nearby thug eyeing her oddly. Moves to the shop, sells the meat, buys some bullets. Comes away with enough caps leftover for a drink and she knows just the place.

The bar is cleaner than she remembers, but just as smokey, the acrid tang of jet mingling with the musty scent of cigarettes. Still a Mr. Handy behind the bar, now with a hat, but she thinks it’s the same one. Doesn’t matter. 

“I’ll take a beer.”

If her voice is a little rough, a little tired, a little familiar, the ‘bot doesn’t say. Slides a crisply cold bottle across the counter and takes her caps and Fahrenheit turns her back to the wall and sighs.

_ Comfortable _ is a foreign concept, but this? This is as close as she’s ever been. Her muscles relax, just a hair, with every sip of her drink. She inhales the smoke and finds her fingers twitching toward her bag, wondering if she has enough for a pack. Finds herself drifting, aware of her surroundings-- if anyone thinks she’ll be an easy target, she’ll happily persuade them otherwise-- but for a brief moment not thinking of anything behind her cold beer and her mostly comfortable stool.

That’s when the music starts.

It takes her a few minutes to realize it’s  _ live _ . Everyone listens to the radio, just like everyone sings around the campfire, but  _ live professional singing _ is-- who even does that? It must cost a fortune. Fahrenheit narrows her eyes, glances around assessingly. It’s cleaner. It’s a  _ lot _ cleaner, and the people too. Shady as shit, of course, it’s  _ Goodneighbor _ , but-- no fear. 

Well. Looks like somebody cleaned the place up. Not that it’s any of her business. She sits back with a shrug, lets her gaze drift to the woman in the far corner. 

The singer is a slim woman, with the kind of face that makes an age hard to pin down. Fahrenheit likes her voice, light and husky at the same time, rich with humour. Likes her dress, too, a blue as bright and rich as her voice. It looks good with her hair, shiny-black and hanging in her eyes. 

She’s the nicest thing Fahrenheit’s had to look at in a long, long time.


	2. Chapter 2

The singing stops at some point. Late, if the ache behind Fahrenheit’s eyes means anything. If she watches the singer making rounds around the room as a scratchy radio replaces the warmth of live songs, at least she’s not the only one. Half the drifters in the place are falling over themselves for a word with her.

_ Important _ , notes the bit of Fahrenheit’s mind that will always think in tactics and caps.  _ More than just a singer.  _ She says a few words to each person, doesn’t linger, moves on sweet and easy. Doesn’t matter. There’s something in her bearing, in the inscrutable smile.  _  Important _ .

She could leave. Avoid notice. Clenches her fingers tight on a long-empty bottle instead, as the woman works her way to Fahrenheit’s little corner.

“Well, aren’t you all sharp edges and gunpowder,” she says, once she does. A lilt to her voice, amusement, and Fahrenheit doesn’t know how to respond. 

“I guess,” she mutters, and tries to sniff herself surreptitiously. Does she really smell like gunpowder?

“And new. Shiny and new, I don’t think I’ve  _ ever _ seen you in my little corner of the world.” She moves closer, sinuous and sleek, like something dangerous.

Fahrenheit likes it.

“Been here before,” she replies, tipping her chin up. “Twice.”

“Ships in the night, then?” The woman laughs, takes another step and stands with her hip cocked out in that blue, blue dress. “I woulda noticed you. Magnolia,” she continues, and sticks out her hand so quickly Fahrenheit almost flinches back.

“Fahrenheit,” she replies after a moment, taking it. Her lips fumble the word, consonants turning to ash in her mouth. A name she’s worn for a year somehow feels shiny and new and strange.

But Magnolia laughs, twice as bright as her songs. “Oh, I  _ like _ it. Does that make you a hot little piece?”

“Depends on what you want a piece of.” Fahrenheit knows her voice is rough, sharp, but she smiles a little to soften the words. Atom knows why, but she likes this Magnolia. Something a little freer about her than your average Commonwealth assholes. Something assured.

“What I  _ want _ can be discussed at a later date, honey.” Magnolia purrs it, leaning forward and putting her hand--  _ long fingers, _ she notes,  _ and cold _ , but the room is so warm _ \--  _ on Fahrenheit’s arm. “What I  _ need _ is to know if you’re half as dangerous as you look.”

Fahrenheit does her the courtesy of thinking about it. Then she grins, the sharp and humourless grin that’s had more than a few recruits stumbling back home to mommy and daddy. “Sure,” she says. “But it’ll cost you.”

It doesn’t cost Magnolia a thing. Costs Hancock a hell of a lot, it being a damn sight harder to keep someone alive than to take them out. Especially idiot thrill-seeking ghouls who like to fancy themselves a hero of the populace.

Not to say that Goodneighbor  _ didn’t _ adore her dumbass boss, but it was still fucking  _ Goodneigbor _ , and after the third month she loses track of how many dipshits she’s had to knife and chuck in an alley. She doesn’t know if they’re after caps or power, doesn’t care, not her job. She just takes out the trash.

It’s a good job, though. Steady pay, plenty of violence, and she doesn’t have to kill anybody that doesn’t earn it. It’s one of Hancock’s policies. He doesn’t even get offended when she turns town the tin of mentats he shakes at her, which is one up on at least two of her previous employers. 

And the Third Rail is a convenient walk away, when she’s got her caps and KL-E-0’s got nothing fun in stock. It turns out to be a hell of a lot easier to have spending caps when your boss it the kind of extravagant asshole that gives you room and board  _ and _ pick of gear.

She goes to the Rail for the beer, not the performances. So what if she stays until the last one, so what if Magnolia makes a point of coming over after?

So what if Fahrenheit’s cheeks burn at every smoldering glance Magnolia flicks at her. 

She gives those looks to  _ everybody _ , Fahrenheit reminds herself. She’s a performer, it’s her  _ job _ .

They get into the habit of talking, though, and she likes that better than anything else. She’s never had a woman for a friend before. She’s pretty sure she’s never had  _ any _ friend before, so she tries real hard not to think about the way her heart thumps when Magnolia sits next to her.

That’s… totally normal. Probably.

“Your  _ face _ ,” is the first thing Magnolia says tonight, a half-horrified gasp as she steps into Fahrenheit’s personal space. 

Fahrenheit blinks, reaches up to touch her nose. Still tender, but the Med-X is kicking in just fine. “‘S good,” she replies, and smiles even though it stings. “I had to tackle Hancock.”

“I’m not even going to  _ ask _ how that leads to a broken nose.” Magnolia wants to touch it, she can tell, that aborted movement of her hands and the twitching in her fingers. Fahrenheit would let her. She’s wearing that red dress tonight. Fahrenheit would probably let her do  _ anything _ .

“Long story,” she says, instead. “Talking kind of hurts.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does. Poor baby. Plenty of things we could do without talking, though,” Magnolia murmurs, and Fahrenheit’s heart speeds up again.  _ Thump-thump _ . But what Magnolia says is: “You ever played chess, darlin’?”

Fahrenheit has not. Doesn’t turn out to be much of an impediment.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm [shiniestqueen](http://shiniestqueen.tumblr.com/).


End file.
